ESPN2 Talks the Talk and Talks the Walk, and Keeps Talking and Talking

Welcome to my log cabin says Chris and Brad (who seems to have had head fattening surgery). Kick your feet up on our redwood coffee table. Have some fresh venison. Lay back on that bear skin rug. LISTEN TO US RAMBLE FOR 4 HOURS AND 32 MINUTES ON WHETHER OR NOT FEDERER HAS WHAT IT TAKES TO WIN THE SLAM HE, BY NOW, OWNS 80% OF. Could I become anymore stupid from listening to these two? Uhhhh, Brad, take your Fed ramble out of the oven, it’s burning. Uhhh, Chris, you have a little Fed on your lip. Nope, no, still there. Do these two give each other handjobs in between camera changes and whisper RAFA! into each other’s hairy, old man ears? I sincerely hope so (for the part of me that is totally gross). Once these two bumbling circus clowns of tennis commentating got around to talking about tennis the first thing out of Brilbert’s lips is, “I’d like Sam to come in more.” For once I’d like to hear a commentator say, “Ya’ know, I know he plays 16 feet behind the baseline, but I’d like to see him move back just a foot or two.” What other gems will this guy bring us over the next two weeks? I bet he thinks Isner is tall, or that Roddick “has a chance.” Bring me Gimmelslime! Hell, I’ll take Renae Stubbbbbs at this point. Fuck, I’d take the guy on the bottle of Stubbs barbeque sauce (I bet that motherfucker has some funny shit to say about tennis). Just no more of that old, douchey, wanna-be casino owning Gilbert. And he’s wearing jeans with that jacket! Might as well try and get away with your Scooby-doo pajamas.

So some tennis was played and I was actually quite surprised how good some of it was. Ferrero toppled Querry whose performance may have suffered due to the fact that he was busy buying furniture for his new home, according to Chris “the talker” Fowler. Apparently those trips to Pier 1 Imports can really damage your tennis game. Ferrero wickered Uncle Sam 2-6, 6-4, 6-4, 6-4 to the surprise of not many.

Skate dad apparently had to (and I’m totally serious if Chris Fowler is) write a fucking essay to get into Wimbledon. I got my hand on an excerpt from the essay (written in rap form oddly enough), and the first thing that struck me was that he actually puts his pauses down on paper. Kick it:

If you let me in/

To Wimble-din/

I’ll cut your grass and………..wash your whites/

I might even….go…..ride on my dirt bike/

And after I’m done with the tennis and stuff/

You know what I’m gonna do next-uff…

Why does he always end with that line? Weird. Anyway, Johansson put Skate dad back to work at Pacific Sun Wear, 6-8, 6-7, 6-3, 6-4, 6-3. They only showed 3 minutes of the match but studies have shown that anymore exposure to Spadea with the human eye results in “fatneck”, herpes simplex-1, and a craving for underage girls.

Cornet’s mosquito bites got pixelated by a “no photo available” in straights 6-7, 6-7. If her picture were indeed available to the public I’d make old school “WANTED” posters with burnt edges and everything. It was a Russian, so I’m sure she poisoned her boob-growing juice tincture.

Hewitt invited Hasse to a journey to the center of the earth, followed by a screening of The Never Ending Story as they went to a 5-setter (Hewitt-setter, anyone?). Haase was prepared bringing a bagged lunch (and the Netherlands answer to the Dumb and Dumber haircut), but he eventually choked on his carrot sticks and ants on a log in the 5th. Hewitt kidnapped Haase before returning him to hairdon’t land, 6-7, 6-3, 6-3, 6-7, 6-2, 4-6, 5-2, 1-9, 3-0, pie-square root of my nut sack, love, 138. Seriously, does Hewitt get paid by the hour? Look, I know it’s grass, but it’s tennis, not a fucking frolic through the hills. We all have shit to do! Namely write our shitty blogs and make believe we’re humping someone with giant bazooms.

Baghdatis won, then cried.

Uh, more commentating! Did you see the fucking ambush they put on with the four boxes? Luke Jensen sticking his thumb up Bud Collin’s arse, Cliff Dreysdale and the other McEnroe, Mary Carillo and Dickberg and more people in another box. All 9 of them chattered away, like school girls at recess who had just seen lisa-marie get finger banged by William, the star kickball player. Oh, and what was the keyword? Federer. The key to this word game is, you have to ask over and over and over, “Will Federer win? Will Federer win? I don’t know for fucks sake, go ask your mother! I think Bud is on the verge of a very public suicide. He talks with the same anguish and exasperation we all feel upon hearing his run-on sentences. The thought bubble above his head says “Borrrrrrrring.” Meanwhile, in the background of box “log cabin” I can see through their tiny window to something that looks like one person playing tennis.

I thought Federer looked back to his old self again ’til he lost his first point of the match, serving 40-0, up 2 games to love. What a disappointment that guy’s turning out to be. Oh, and can that guys mother (Nike) please stop dressing him? He looks like he works at a pancake house in the swiss alps. Cream cardigan? Sounds like a nasty sex move I put on my girlfriend while she’s sleeping. Actually it is a nasty sex move I put on my girlfriend while she’s sleeping. Seemed like Federer had some place to be. Dentist appointment? Piano Lesson? He crushed Hrbaty (the first of many who will realize Federer is fucking pissed off and ready let off some cardigan-wearing steam) in just under 8 minutes and 22 seconds (it’s true, look it up!). Hrbaty had his moment with an amazing (extremely lucky) backwards, underhand, no look lob up the line that landed fair, just past Federer’s racket. Cute. Hrbaty lost in straights, 6-3, 6-2, 6-2. Somewhere, an idiot lost an extremely large amount of money on what he thought would’ve been the upset of the century.

At one point the other McEnroe was referring to some fans in the stands wearing giant tennis balls as hats, saying, “there’s a look for ya’, balls on the head.” Yeah, it’s called a trojan helmet and the penis gently rests on the bridge of the nose. Roddick does it all the time to his “bros” at parties. It’s also called a frat hat.

Mattek! Photo available, unfortunately. She won, while the rest of us lost.

Harklegash met expectations, losing, Serena flashdanced her way out of the first, Bartoli made me a happy burger, Stalone out, a ton of Americans (which technically, in this day and age could refer to only two Americans) are out, Ancic popped that collar, and Karlovic hung his extremely long neck down in defeat, and Meusburger seriously better change her name (or the last six letters) as she put on a very un-burger like performance winning only 3 games.

I promise tomorrow’s post won’t suck so bad, I just really need to rub one off. Tally-ho!!!!!! (thanks Simon, you win by the way).

P.s. To whoever searched “Licking a tasty, juicy ass, man crack” the principle would like to see you in his office…and share a good laugh with you.